Back from Botswana

 Michael - Alternate Thursdays

We're just back in Knysna from a magnificent trip to Botswana. We went with two friends who are as keen on the African Bush as we are, and were guided by Peter Comley, who knows as much about the wildlife of the country as anyone and a lot more than almost everyone. 

We flew to Kasane on the Chobe River in the north of the country, and over the next two weeks we visited almost all my favorite places there except for the Okavango itself. Fortunately, there had been plenty of rain and the Zambezi was running high. That's important because it reverses the flow of the Chobe pushing water up the erstwhile tributary which starts to flow to the west. That turns the Chobe floodplain into a paradise of animals and birds until the Zambezi sinks and the Chobe starts running east again.

It will take me a while to get my head around the trip, so in the meanwhile here are a selection of pictures. Hopefully they will give an idea of what two weeks in the Chobe can be like.

African skimmer on an island

Glossy Ibis fishing

(and showing off some gloss)

Coexistence

Not too early for a snack

Subadult lioness

Yes, that is the wing mirror

Time for a cuddle

Now it's serious. A wildebeest is in sight

Everyone has to eat

Puku, rare in the Chobe

What's up?

Nothing like mud!

Baobabs

A pack of African Hunting Dogs with puppies

Have Visa, Will Travel: Moving to Spain as an African American

 Kwei--Wed

I know, I was supposed to have posted last week. I shamelessly delayed just to line up with a neat, satisfying number. Today marks exactly 28 days—a clean four weeks—until I board a flight to Spain. Forgive the calendrical offense, fellow Murder Is Everywhere authors. The obsessive symmetry of “one month out” was just too good to resist.

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I’m Holding the Visa. This Is Happening.

A shiny, official Spanish visa in my passport. It says, in no uncertain terms, “You’re going.” Not “you might go,” or “you’ll try.” You. Are. Going.

On July 30, I board a Boeing 787 to begin a new life in Oviedo, capital of Asturias in northern Spain. I’ll walk more. I’ll own less. I’ll inhale more green than concrete. Hopefully, I’ll have fewer migraines (though that part’s TBD).

Why I Chose Oviedo: A Simpler Life for an African American Moving to Spain

After years of tight schedules, traffic jams, and the mental clutter that seems endemic to life in the U.S., I’ve been aching for simplicity:

• No car.

• No Amazon box towers.

• No constant political barrage.

Instead, I want walkable streets, Spanish-language conversations that challenge me (but don’t break me), and to live near parks instead of parking lots. The lush green comes from the ample rainfall, which is perfectly fine with me.

  

 El Campo de San Francisco, Oviedo (Image: Travel Blog and Guide)

The African American Angle

Moving to Spain as an African American brings its own set of questions—about belonging, language, and how I’ll be seen. I’m not heading to a metropolis like Madrid or Barcelona. I chose Oviedo because it’s quieter, greener, and more about substance than spectacle. I’m bringing with me curiosity, openness, and a lifetime of experience navigating spaces not always designed for people like me—whether in Ghana, the U.S., or now, Spain.

The Place

Oviedo isn’t flashy, and that’s its charm. It’s not trying to be New York, LA, or even Madrid. It’s a clean, safe city of about 220,000 nestled in a forested corner of Spain near the Bay of Biscay.

  Oviedo: one of the northernmost cities, cooler than many southern cities

Founded in 761 AD, Oviedo is dotted with cathedrals, cider bars, coffee shops, and peacocks strutting through public parks like they run the place—because they kind of do.

                                     Peacock in the Park (Image: Travel Blog and Guide)

Despite modern growth, the medieval heart of Oviedo hasn’t been ripped out by overdevelopment.

          Gothic Cathedral of San Salvador, Oviedo (Image: Go Guides)

The Spanish Curve

I speak Spanish—but mine is Southern California–style, infused with Latin American flavors. Spain-Spanish? Different ingredients. I’m prepping for the vosotros curveballs and the Asturian accent quirks by taking classes now, which I’ll continue in Oviedo.

I expect to fumble idioms, order the wrong things, and get stared at. But those looks in Spain, other Black travelers say, are mostly curious, not hostile—worlds away from the microaggressions we know in the U.S.

The Migraine Question

Let’s be honest: airports are migraine hell. Noise, crowds, flashing lights, fluorescent hellscapes. I’m treating travel day like a military op: hydration, noise-canceling headphones, backup meds, meditation, and deep breaths.

 Airport nightmare: we know the drill (Image: Stock Cake)

Will the migraines follow me to Spain? Maybe. But I’m hoping a slower pace, fresh air, less stress, and maybe a horse or two will ease the burden.

The Mood, Today

Right now, I feel like a man straddling two worlds:
👛 One foot still planted in the life I know.
🚏 The other on an e-bike somewhere in Oviedo, coasting downhill into something freer.

There’s excitement, yes. But also nerves. Will I be lonesome? Will I find community? Will I miss Sprout’s unsweetened peanut butter?

Probably.

But fear doesn’t mean stop. It just means go with awareness.

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One Month Out

So here I am. Visa in hand. Exit in sight.

This blog—An African American in Spain—will be a space to track this journey: the culture shocks, the laughs, the lows, the discoveries.

If you’ve ever dreamed of hitting reset—of really doing it—you’ll want to stick around. It’s not always easy. But it’s always worth writing about.

More, More Mykonos!

 Sujata Massey

It's rare luck to be out traveling and run into friends from home. But that is what happened last month: we went to two islands of my choice first, and then to Mykonos because that's where Jeff and Barbara were.  

My friendship with crime fiction author and co-blogger Jeff Siger began at a mystery convention more than ten years ago. I had the added pleasure soon afterward of meeting his wife, the  artist  Barbara Zilly. I was impressed to learn that Jeff had been a regular seasonal dweller on Mykonos for years, giving him a local's knowledge to use for his writing. Since Jeff has been an honorary Mykonian for about 40 years, and spends quite a few months there, it's more like a home stay merged with work. Tony and I are contemplating being overseas much more, so this was a splendid chance to learn from the professionals.  

During the short, smooth, ferry ride I pondered our destination. Mykonos is quite small, and its’ name has something to do with a pile of stones, which certainly reflects the way it looks, or maybe also because it’s named after a a legendary long-ago ruler, Mykonos, a son or grandson of Apollo. I also heard from Jeff that it's known as Island of the Winds. The triple-possibility explanation of the island's name reminded me of all the multiple explanations for place names in India. Also like most districts in India, Mykonos is a very crowded place. The nine-mile-long island has 10,700 regular residents, but manages to be Greece's second-most touristed destination after Santorini. 

We’d visited Santorini on our 1990 Greece trip and found the hordes of people made it hard to enjoy the spectacular cliff views. These days, we knew Santorini had become even busier, and we expected the same for Mykonos. This was traditionally an island with working class and poor dwellers that shot into the limelight in1961,when American First Lady Jacqueline Kennedy visited with her sister, Lee Radziwell, and a few others. Jackie's time on the Pile of Stones was part of a larger tour of Greece, but of all the locales, apparently Mykonos became her favorite. After marrying Aristotle Onassis in 1968, might her heart have gone to his private island, Skorpios? I wonder.

In the 1980s, Mykonos exploded as a jet-set party destination, and as we got off, we saw so many fellow tourists who fit that decadent description, as well as three-generation family groups from all corners of the earth. Essentially, it was like the crowd at any international airport around Thanksgiving. 

The wait at Mykonos Port to get a taxi was a lot longer than the 3-minute ride up a stony hill to Hotel Rhenia, a business owned by Jeff and Barbara’s hotelier friends. We checked in at a sunny courtyard, where the embraces from Jeff and Barbara were just as warm. The sky was dazzling blue, and we could see multiple cruise ships pulled in. How many of the people crowding the port were from the cruise ships, I wondered? I learned later, the cruisers go back during the day; and nighttime is for the partiers staying on the island.

 

That night, the winds whipped as we strolled Chora, the old original village that is the town’s epicenter for shopping, food and nightlife. The style memo was young, fancy, sexy, and wild. We were. beyond it all, though. As we ambled past shops and restaurants, Jeff and Barbara were greeted like returning neighbors who had been away too long. The Sigers know EVERYONE. The museum founders, the restaurant chefs, the jewelry store guards and the managers, the opticians, the restaurant chefs, the boutique owners, the artists, the local characters . . . a two block walk turned into a receiving line of dozens of incredibly friendly people. 

Jeff and Barbara brought us to a favorite spot where we had a luscious dinner at a nouvelle cuisine restaurant. There, we planned for the next day: off-road touring in the couple’s rugged jeep to some beaches, and other destinations that would not be overrun by the crowds we were squeezing through in Chora. It would be nice not to see another Rolex store or chocolate boutique!

The next day's trip rambled and rolled from paved roads to dirt and stone paths, many of them narrow and uphill. Jeff drove like Mario Andretti, backing up and executing hairpin turns without the slightest hesitation. We raced along country roads where the tourists were nonexistent but occasional vehicles would need to play nice with Jeff. He was intent to show us the pleasant swimming beaches most tourists don't know. So SSHH!!

These locations included the small Kalafatis Beach with only two people on it, and two famous rock islands in the sea nicknamed the Mounds of Aphrodite--you can come to your own conclusion about what that means. I was getting the feeling there are all kinds of names for the features of Mykonos.

 After a great lunch including greens, beans and squid at a taverna on Fokos Beach, another quiet spot, we reached the island’s famous working monastery in the village of Ano Mera. Panagia Tourliani translates as the Virgin Mary of Tourlos, also patron saint of the island. 

Built and rebuilt during medieval times through the 19th century, the monastery is simultaneously both a white-washed Cyclades classic--and its interior full of as much gold and treasure-laced decor as Greek Orthodox churches elsewhere. We toured the stunning main church filled with icons and dripping with golden chandeliers. Upstairs, some of the monastery ooms hold treasures of ancient religious clothing, texts and items used in worship. Barbara speaks Greek very well and related that a monk had told her that it was a good we hadn’t come the next day—when four cruise ships’ worth of passengers were scheduled to visit. Once again we had been lucky!

That evening we were still too filled from the delicious lunch to want to eat anything more. I packed up my carry-on and swatted at gnats who’d come in the open windows of our hotel bungalow. Jeff was resting and Tony and Barbara hung out with drinks in the hotel courtyard. 

It was the last night for us after two weeks in Greece. While I hated to leave, I also felt renewed. I had seen so much water, so much sun, so many indescribable antiquities. Even in the presence of mass tourism, these gems remain to be found, and I was grateful to Jeff and Barbara for showing us Mykonos's hidden side. 

Blending Carrots and Murder Plots

Ovidia--every other Tuesday

Last weekend, instead of attending Pink Dot (Singapore’s annual celebration of our LGBTQ+ community), I was using a blender to pulverise carrots / pumpkin/ bananas and quick-cooking oats in an attempt to coax food into a ninety-year-old parent-in-law who’s decided he won’t eat any ‘solid’ (eg rice porridge/bread/regular rolled oats).

Medical consultations say there’s nothing wrong with his teeth/ swallowing reflexes / digestion.
And no, nothing indicates he’s on a hunger strike or determined to starve himself.
He does eat soft boiled eggs and drink Ensure though his sweet live-in helper complains that after a couple of mouthfuls he’s full.

The blended banana + yoghurt + Ensure did get swallowed. But then he complained that it made him have to go to the toilet. So… I’m wondering if that’s where the problem lies? He doesn’t want to have to go to the toilet?
And I realise I’ve been doing something like that to myself too.

When it comes to writing, I find that the more I read the more I get sparked by ideas for writing that I want to follow up and play with. So at times like this, when I’m short of time and in the throes of trying to wrestle a messy first draft into something I can show my editor, I try to cut down on my reading because I can’t afford to introduce too much new stuff into the mix I’m already having trouble taming.
I don’t always manage, though.

Here at the Parent in Law’s place, I find it hard to focus because sounds from the television worm into my head like Doris Saunders' words into Henrietta Savernake's model of Nausicaa (if you don't know what I mean, go read Agatha Christie's The Hollow and see why Henrietta had to destroy her model as a result).
There's no escape because he has the set playing YouTube as long as he’s awake.
Once a brilliant mathematician passionate about cars, now he watches (mostly) American AI-generated content (how noisy the blender is is a Blessing during Donald Trump’s speeches) or knife collectors discussing and comparing their blades.

And I Much prefer the knife collectors! The programme on the pros and cons of Fixed Blade Knives vs Folding Knives was surprisingly interesting—and might come in useful some day!

During advertisement breaks he asks me, “Did you do yoga today?”
“No, it’s Saturday, that’s why I’m here with you.”
“I see.”
Next advertisement break:
“Did you do yoga today?”
I repeat the same answer (eventually moving on to “No, it’s Sunday,”).
I used to try to come up with different replies but I’ve since realised this ritual has become part of his routine, like variations of YouTube content running on an endless loop.
He asks because “yoga” is something he associates with me, and he wants to show he remembers that.
So now, even though I’ve been there with him, I sometimes switch to, “Yes, and I had a good session. You should come with me next time!”
Which makes him smile and say, “Okay. When I get better.”

Another regularly repeated question is, “When is your next book coming out?”
Even though a copy of the latest mystery is on the table in front of him, next to the TV control.
But I understand this too—he’s telling me he sees me as a writer. And it’s touching that every time I point it out to him, he beams and says he’s proud of me and will read it.

There’s comfort in familiar routines, and I definitely appreciate being comfortable. Maybe that’s why I like reading and writing traditional mysteries. Though at times (like now) when I’m wrestling with a messy mid-draft I wonder what all this struggle is for. What ‘good’ does it do, even if I finish this book, even if Dad-in-Law eats his pumpkin puree? Even if I someday write a mega-bestseller and buy him a Rolls‑Royce La Rose Noire Droptail he’s not going be happy about it any longer than he remembers it—or about half an hour.

And no matter how good he is about eating his pumpkin puree, he’s not going to morph back into the man who used to run up and down the fire escape stairs between classes for ‘training’… in the days when he was a university lecturer.
But the bright side of things is how small things make him happy.
We went out and found a Korean ginseng chicken soup that he liked (minus the chicken, the ginseng and the rice in it) and he talked happily about a trip to Korea with his late wife—how much they enjoyed the samgye-tang (ginseng chicken soup) and kimchi.
We also enjoyed the cockeral with white ear lobes who came to watch us eat--

Our local kampong chickens don't usually come with white earlobes; he explained to me it was probably the result of cross-breeding with an imported Andalusian.
And no, it's not the first time I've been surprised by how he manages to retrieve such nuggets of information!

It reminded me that small moments like this matter.
Just like reading easily digested books when you don't feel strong enough to stomach esoteric literary pieces about existential angst can be better than not reading at all.

Finding it difficult to work, I treated myself to Vanessa Kelly’s Murder in Highbury and it was wonderful reading about Emma Woodhouse’s patience with her father while solving a murder! I highly recommend it, especially if you’re a Austenophile—and don’t worry about being offended. I was all ready to be, but I wasn’t. Plus the ‘right’ victim dies… ‘right’ as in it was someone I’m dying to kill myself, every time I re-read Emma!

So yes, there is a reason we carry on reading and feeding ourselves on comfort foods and comfort books. Because something is easy to absorb, (whether mashed carrots or a traditional mystery) doesn’t mean it doesn’t play an essential part in keeping us alive.

And that’s also why we keep on running the blender and writing books: because all you can do day by day is keep going.

Happy July, everyone!
May this be a great month for us all!

There is Magic Here - Update

Annamaria on Monday

I am updating this post, which I wrote in January 2016. Back then, I was learning the history and working on a first draft of a historical mystery/thriller that takes place in my ancestral city of Siracusa in Sicily. And I was also continuing along with the Vera & Tolliver series.

By 2019, I had what I thought was a worthy draft. My then agent was happy with it, and she found two editors who were quite interested.

Then came the perfect storm: a publisher in breach of contract, a book launched without ARCs going out, my wonderful agent facing a family catastrophe, and COVID.

And so the book, eventually named La Magica, went into limbo, which turned into purgatory, which threatened to turn to hell. The difference between purgatory and hell is that hell is permanent, purgatory is temporary. my story now stands on the cusp. 

Just now, La Magica is resurfacing. I am polishing the manuscript, and it is with my agency. Hope is on the horizon.

 Here a peek at what I had to say about the story nearly 10 years ago.

Period map of the area, found, of course, in the peerless New York Public Library

What would you call it, if a thing you saw in a dream was suddenly before your eyes and real?

My work in progress, which I began at my desk in New York, takes place in Siracusa, Sicily in the late 17th century and involves the life a young widow, mother of baby son, both of whom are threatened.  I had been to Siracusa a few times before starting to imagine how the tale would unfold.  But there was no certainty that the places I imagined were plausible, much less realistic.

The tale begins with the heroine on the roof her palace across the piazza from the duomo of Siracusa. From there she can see the harbour and the the moon reflected in the water.  But did the geography of the place allow that?

Here is the reality.  It seemed completely magical that what I had imagined was exactly right:

The Piazza del Duomo, and there at the end my Marchesa's palazzo on the
left, just across from the Duomo.

The facade of the palazzo, with no buildings behind, nothing to block
my character's view of the port.

Evening view from my room--the same point of view as from the palazzo's roof.
There, barely visible in the upper center, is the new moon.  And across the water,
the other arm of land that forms the port, which you will visit with me below.

An ensuing scene takes place in the duomo itself and involves the chapel of Santa Lucia, the patron saint of the city.  A revered statue of the early Christian martyr and resident of Siracusa graces the chapel, but I had never seen it face to face.  It is ordinarily enclosed.  I didn't know that it is kept on view for a month after the saint's feast day--December 13th.  By chance, I got there just in time to see it in person.  And to discover some more grist for my imagination's mill.

Santa Lucia in her niche, open and on view just when I needed her.

A close up of the martyr, nicely gruesome for local color
in a historical thriller.

On the left of this ancient Greek column, you see the entrance
to the chapel of Santa Lucia, and behind it....

 

...the perfect hiding place for a kidnapper.  I planned the
scene without knowing how perfect the layout of the
Duomo would turn out to be.

A grave in the church floor, just where I imagined it.

The following two days in the Ortigia afforded a close look at places I had chosen from a map.

Just enough room for a man on a horse.

My main character has a wise, old grandmother who lives in a castle at the end of the other peninsula that forms the great harbour of Siracusa.  I needed a way to put my feet on the ground over there across the water.  But I was off to visit my cousins in Solarino, a small hill town overlooking Siracusa.  At another time, I will tell you in detail of the warmth and joy that has always greeted me when I visit them.  For now I will concentrate on two darlings, who like a fairy godmother and godfather gave me a fabulous view of everything I wanted to see and much more.  I did not even have to ask.  They came to greet me and offered to take me anywhere I wanted to go.

Antonello Martorana and Anna Puglisi, teachers and warmest of cousins.
For me on this trip they were magic makers.

We spent a gorgeous, spring-like day investigating a place I had seen only on maps.

In trying to imagine what my characters would be eating in December and
January, I gave them oranges, not knowing if such would have been in season.
And here in January, I saw them ripe and ready for picking.

From the coast road, the two sides of the port entrance.

I had imagined that from the south arm of the bay, one might see the Ortigia
clearly enough to pick out the buildings.  And you can!

What I did not know is that you can also see Etna.

There is an old lighthouse just at the end of south arm of the bay.

I told Anna and Antonello that in my story there is a castle where the lighthouse now stands.  When I was finished photographing everything in sight and waxing ecstatic about how perfect everything was, they drove me along the coast road where my characters travel--a road I imagined but did not know existed.  We continued north, beyond Siracusa, to a town called Brucoli and parked next to this: 

It is the castle of my imagination.  I had no idea there really were castles like
this in the area.  It is the same size as mine and made of the same stone.

And it occupies a position on the edge of the sea!

And has a view of Etna!!

With my soul satiated with what I had seen, we then repaired to a gorgeous
restaurant just across from the castle, where we ate a FABULOUS fish dinner,
with wonderful wine.  

Here I am, as happy as I ever was!  And grateful to have such generous and wonderful
companions with which to share my joyful day.